


For how much longer?

by Callendra



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fear, It's not the happy fun times over here, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3930430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callendra/pseuds/Callendra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Edith Cushing is spending the night at Crimson Peak, yet she can't sleep. She wanders around the mansion to try and find Sir Sharpe. She finds him in conversation with Lady Sharpe. (no spoilers from the movie, but from the first trailer)</p>
            </blockquote>





	For how much longer?

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the first one I post on this website. I am excited. xD For you who are reading this right now: Hi! I hope you will enjoy! =D PS: I was inspired by the first teaser trailer, I saw the new ones after. Also, I am looking forward to reading reviews, good or bad, it's always pleasant as long as they are constructive!

Lady Cushing flinched and her eyes opened wide, reflecting for a second the moonlight bathing her face. Already accustomed to the darkness, her pupils immediately saw the imposing wardrobe sculpted in the finest wood, standing tall against the wall, right in front of her and the small round table with three ornate legs in the corner, surrounded with three little chairs. She remained perfectly still. A light cracking sound came from the floor, getting a little louder as it approached her bed. Her fingers clawed around the pillow under her cheek. Except for this desperate gesture, still she remained unmoving. Fatigue was weighting on her eyes but she kept them open. Those sounds were keeping her awake. For hours she had tried to give in to slumber, and she had just succeeded or had it been a delusion. Another cracking sound, louder. She lifted her blonde head and rolled over to sit on the bed, the silken sheets spread around her. Nothing. Again. She looked around the bedchamber, her weary eyes wandering over every piece of furniture haltingly. Her palms started to dampen and accompanied the tightness in her stomach. Thomas… She threw the sheets off her and left the bed.

Her soft steps were feebly echoing against the high walls of the long corridors. During the night, the paintings didn’t look as welcoming as they did in the sunlight. The shadows contorted the faces, the trees, the houses within the frames. She had liked the house the moment she had walked past the threshold. The great hall was almost radiating with colours, not only coming from the paintings, but from the walls themselves, blue and yellow and red. She had instantly felt this place had a soul, a majestic particularity Sir Thomas Sharpe was granting her access to. She had wanted to either climb the stairs up to the higher levels and explore, or just walk ahead and go sit in front of the chimney. The curiosities of this house, she had enjoyed them all. She was longing for this feeling. She kept walking in the long corridors, the rays of moonlight as her only beacon. Her pace slowed and her footsteps got quieter as she perceived voices coming from what she thought to be the ballroom. She hesitated to push the door open and reveal her presence to her hosts, but she stood there, listening and watching.

“… has to stop.” He was saying, his deep, charming voice tainted with a faint tremor.  
“Have you grown fond of her my poor brother?” she replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. A few seconds of silence followed her cynical question before she pursued. “It must continue, you know it perfectly well.”  
“Until when?” his voice was getting filled with a touch of anger and despair. “For how much longer must we keep this dreadful masquerade running?”  
“For as long as it doesn’t work.” She was getting impatient with his complaining, starting to glare.  
“How many times have we tried already? How many have we sacrificed? How many more? What makes you think one more will suffice and change anything? It is never going to stop, it is not worth it.” He was on the verge of shouting, angry, but he was still containing himself, he couldn’t take the risk of waking her.

Lady Sharpe stared at her brother, her eyes hard while the rest of her face remained expressionless. She brought her delicate hand to the medallion hanging between her covered collarbones. She pressed her long fingers against the stony red surface, engraved with the heraldry of their family. The immaculate and handsome face of Sir Sharpe started to decay. The pale skin on his strong cheekbones began to melt on his flesh, digging a dark hole. His dark hair became scarce on his head and his clear blue eyes turned blurry white. He didn’t turn his still seeing eyes away from her. He could feel it, his flesh rotting under his elegant clothes. Lady Cushing’s hand moved to cover her mouth, holding back the shriek her throat threatened to unleash. Lady Sharpe released the medallion, allowing his hair, his flesh, his skin to recompose his body.

“Is it not?” she simply asked with a softer tone. At the sight of her brother decaying, her anger had died down to make way to a jaded resolution.  
“Why did you stop?” his voice was duller, resigned, and so was the expression on his angel-like face.  
“Would you leave me alone in our giant house?” she asked with a subtly bitter laugh.  
“You are already alone, dear sister.” He replied lifelessly and turned to leave.

Lady Sharpe’s gaze followed him as he walked to the main doors, her frown deepening with every of his new steps. Lady Cushing’s hand was refusing to let go of her mouth, and her feet denying her the command to turn on their heels and run. Her eyes were watering with fear, her stomach flipping with dread. She was not to be sacrificed. She turned around and hurried down the hallway as stealthily as she could manage, never daring to look back as she practically ran towards the entrance. She had been in this strange house several times, she knew a shortcut to the grand hall through the kitchens, where she knew she could grab a knife. Would it really save her? She didn’t know, she couldn’t think of anything else but her need to escape and the rotting face of her love.

She pulled at the heavy doors and found herself surrounded with snow. She naturally thought she would be enveloped in darkness, but dawn was already breaking and the first rays of light were shining on the white powder, offering her a rather clear view of her vicinity, at least where the fog wasn’t too deep. This time she didn’t hesitate and started to run. Soon she could no longer see further than ten feet around her. She was detecting nothing more than the milky snow and the damaged metal parts of his transport system. Everything was quiet, she could only hear the sound of her ragged breathing. Until she heard a soft ruffling to her side, accompanied with a moving form. She quickly turned to face whatever it was, her long knife pointing threateningly in her slightly shaking hand. The form moved again in the corner of her eye.

“No!”

Lady Cushing turned around to the shouting voice to find herself in front of her love. His blue eyes were wide open, staring dreadfully just a few inches to the right of her face. Her throat tightened and her heartbeat sped up, something was standing right behind her. Her frightened mind was commanding her to swing her arm around and cut deep into the deadly threat. She was tetanized.

A hand was resting on the shoulder of her white nightgown; a burned black, bony and emaciated hand he knew too well. He could no longer bear their bloody routine, it was eating at his insides. The ball, the picking, the seduction, the dread, the pain, the death. He had to witness all of it, he could no longer be part of it. He had lost faith and hope some time ago, she didn’t have to die for some mirage his sister was still holding onto. He brought his hand up to the red medallion hidden under his shirt. He didn’t press the soft carved stone, but his gaze darkened on the black and withered figure behind Edith. There was no crueller part to their damnation than having to constantly wear around their necks the reminder of their true reality, to know that one could kill the other, only to stay alone forever. Lady Sharpe’s piercing blue eyes were fixed on her rebellious brother, the last remaining trace of her usual lively appearance. Her horrifying grip tightened on Lady Cushing’s shaking form and she raised her left hand to rip her throat open with her claws-like nails. A spurt of blood gushed out of the scarlet gap, sinking into the ivory carpet underneath, as the knife slipped of her hand and fell to the ground at her feet. Sir Sharpe’s body moved to rush forward, but his feet remained locked to the snow, holding her stupefied gaze until a veil covered her eyes.

Lady Sharpe’s black, emaciated skin retreated to make way for her naturally pale cheeks, her shape filling once again her deep blue dress. Her still bony burned hand released Lady Cushing’s shoulder, leaving the freshly dead woman to fall onto the snow, the colour of the soft fabric of her nightgown almost completely blending into the white powder already. Only her blond hair, spread all around her paling face was standing out like a little fading sun. Sir Sharpe wouldn’t stop staring at her. For some foolish seconds he thought this one could have been spared.

“You have no one else, brother.” She said, her words sounding in his ear like a sentence, before she walked around the corpse and made her way back to the house.

Sir Sharpe remained standing in the snow, watching as the blood coated with red the smooth white powder around Edith’s throat. She would never have been his Edith, he never would have wished her to. But she could have lived. What little was left of his selflessness, he had concentrated it on her survival, but he hadn’t tried enough. He glanced despondently at her face one last time before he turned and walked his way back to the mansion.


End file.
